


Sugar Shack

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Cooking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: "We used to put an old door across the tub, give us a table. Don't even know where we got a tub from, last people in must have left it 'cause there was no way he could'a hauled it all the way up the stairs. Come to think of it, I don't know where we got the door from either.”"Sounds great,” James says.But Steve doesn't quite seem to be seeing the apartment as much anymore. Instead his gaze has turned distant and his smile has turned nostalgic."It wasn't easy," he says, “wasn't even nice some of the time. A lot of the time. It's weird, you'd think I wouldn't miss it, wouldn't you?"James, whose arm is still around Steve the way Steve's is around him, rubs between Steve's shoulder blades."Home's home," he says softly, and Steve nods a little more.





	1. Chapter 1

James doesn’t drink very often. When he does, he doesn’t drink much. There are several reasons for this - he doesn’t like to be unsteady or not fully in control, he doesn’t need very much to get buzzed and, first and foremost,

“Oh my God, I had like three rum and cokes, why am I dead?”

Oh yeah, that.

“What time is it?” Amy says, and James squints around the couch bed to figure out what bit of the floor he put his phone on. 

He’s wearing yoga pants over his boxer shorts, and a tank, both of which are too small because they’re Amy’s. They worked well enough as pajamas, though, and Mrs Chen found him a toothbrush. He knows that he’s going to have panda eyes but, one, he didn’t get any makeup on the pillowcases apparently and, two, how on earth can sunlight be this bright through curtains?

“Like,” James says, unlocks his supernova of a phone, “ow, eleven twenty-two, shit.”

“Well,” Amy says over a yawn, “I’ll see you Monday…” 

James snorts, pulls himself upright. His falsies are stuck to the back of his phone. He shrugs - at least he knows where they are,well done drunk-James. And someone - Mrs Chen or tipsy-Amy (he wasn’t drunk enough for it to have been drunk-James without hungover-James remembering) - has left him a glass of water on the little table near the couch. 

“Nice,” he says, and downs the whole thing. 

He gets up and goes to brush his teeth because his mouth tastes terrible, and he comes back to grab his clothes.

“Can I shower?” he says.

“Knock yourself out,” Amy says, and she rolls onto her back this time, picking her phone up off her nightstand. “Although, if you knock yourself out, I’m not coming in after you.”

“I really don’t want you to come in after me anyway.”

“What’s Steve’s real name, beety-dubs, ‘cause like he’d come in after you, right? I was gonna say Steve would come get you but I don’t know his name.”

James puts his phone down his boxer shorts.

“Wow, die alone, wet and naked then,” she says. “And don’t take forever, I like seriously need a shower.”

James goes. He does not jerk off in Amy’s shower because he knows her just the wrong amount for it. His parents’ house? Fuck yeah, he’s been jerking off there since he’s been jerking off, so why would that change? But Amy’s a colleague. They’re friends, sure, but like….it’s Mr and Mrs Chen’s shower and like, no way. But, by the same token, it’s very difficult these days not to imagine Steve as he soaps himself up. It’s difficult not to think about the fact that his hand could so easily be Steve’s hand - to remember that Steve’s hands have traveled these paths before.

 _But_ the more time he spends daydreaming in Amy’s shower, the less time he has to spend with Steve before Monday.

The shower only takes him ten minutes.

~

Because he’s a good friend, he waits for Amy to finish showering before he leaves.

He’s actually a terrible friend, because he calls Steve as soon as he’s out of the shower, and then Steve insists on coming to get him, because the only thing he’s really missing is the white armor. James says no, says he doesn’t have to, but Steve asks for Amy’s address and, if James agrees, he gets to see Steve _way_ earlier than he would otherwise because, hello, public transport into Manhattan on a Saturday. That gives him a little time because Steve is either in Brooklyn or Manhattan, which is half an hour either way from where Amy lives in Queens (ew).

“You stayin’ for breakfast?” she asks, emerging with her hair up in a towel and somehow completely ready aside from that.

“Uh,” he says. “I got about maybe like fifteen minutes if traffic’s good?” he says, a little sheepishly. “I called a friend to come pick me up.”

Amy raises an eyebrow.

“Shame you can’t get Steve to come pick you up,” she says, little does she know, and she flops down beside him on her bed, ‘cause he packed up the couch bed once he’d texted Steve. “Come on, can’t you tell me who he is?”

James shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says. “We’re waiting to see how it goes. He doesn’t want all the gossip rags callin’ our relationship before we even know what we want. If it feels like it’s working, then we’re gonna tell friends and family in a month or two. It’s like…It’s like really weird for him, too, ‘cause like you know how celebrities only date celebrities.”

“Mmhm,” she says. “And you might be cute but you’re not famous. Weird. How did you guys even meet?” 

James smiles, ducks his head as he blushes. 

“He bought my coffee,” he says.

“Why can’t I get in line near cute celebrities?” she says. “Nobody’s ever paid for my Starbucks.”

“I have?” James says, and she waves him away.

“I mean no romantic prospects have ever paid for my Starbucks.”

And yeah, that’s true enough. Until Steve bought James’ coffee, it was true for him, too. Ish. Like obviously he’s had partners who’ve bought him coffee but like…never before they were dating.

“What are you making for breakfast?” he says.

She blows a breath out through her nose.

“Men,” she says. “Only want one thing. Bacon.”

She gets up and James follows.

“Am I making the ‘this man only wants meat’ joke, or are you?”

“My parents are both home this Saturday,” Amy says, lowering her voice as she opens the bedroom door, James hoisting his bag off the floor and onto his shoulder. “So if they hear you making dick jokes, it’s every man for himself. I’m not sticking my neck out for you.”

“Right. And I’m not sticking my-”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

James laughs.

~

James gets a text just as Amy’s made a plate of bacon. The plan is to have the bacon with pancakes, but James hears a noise outside her apartment building which is like…unusually loud for this area on a Saturday, and then he gets the text. 

It’s Steve, saying he’s outside, and James’ heart leaps up into his throat. 

“Ah!” he says, and he knows that he’s grinning like a lunatic but he doesn’t care at all. “I gotta go!”

Amy turns and looks at him.

“You could at least look sad about it,” she says.

He winces. 

“Can I snag some bacon?”

If the look she gives him is dry then the Atlantic ocean is ‘a little damp,’ but she points the spatula at the plate of bacon.

“You only want me for my food,” she says. 

James grabs like three rashers and shoves one in his mouth before he picks up his bag. He’s got the bacon in one hand and the other hand free, and clean, for stuff, but Amy still comes to open the front door for him, because they don’t need bacon grease all over their door handles.

“Thanks,” he says. “Thanks for letting me stay over, too - you oughta come over mine some time, we haven’t had a film night in ages.”

“Sounds nice,” she says, smiling. “I’ll see you Monday. Say hi to Mr Segal for me.”

James snorts, and leaves. Amy closes the door behind him.

 _“Māmā, Bàba, nǐ xiǎng chī zǎocān chī péigēn jiānbing ma? Uhhh…Zǎo wǔcān?”_ he hears her yell, and he smiles as he hot-foots it down the corridor. 

He takes the stairs, not the elevator, because it gives him time to stuff the other two rashers of bacon into his mouth and wipe his hand on his pants. Then he bursts out into the street and finds a certain custom Street 750 waiting for him, the rider dressed all in black, with a plain black helmet and one boot on the ground.

“That better be you,” James says.

Steve flips the visor and gets off the bike. On closer inspection, the helmet is not plain - he’s covered the blocky white ‘Rogers’ with black tape. Maybe vinyl? James isn’t sure, but it hides the name, which he presumes is the point.

“It’s me,” Steve says. “Stow your bag and hop on, I can’t kiss you hello in the middle of the street yet.”

Steve already has James’ helmet with him, so James puts it on. There’s somehow his leather jacket and the kneepads from before, too - how much storage does the bike actually have?? - and he puts his things on and stows his bag, and then he and Steve get back on the bike.

Steve’s leathers are cool because he runs hot but the air’s been rushing past while he rides, and James fits himself to Steve’s back like a second skin, slips his arms around Steve’s waist and plants his hands on Steve’s chest, turns his head so as not to mess up the airflow.

 _“You set?”_ Steve says, and James maybe slightly flexes his fingers against Steve’s chest, his hips against Steve’s ass. _“Oh is that how it is?”_

“I’m set,” James says and, without any further ado, the bike roars to life beneath them, suddenly enough that James jumps, limbs tightening around Steve.

He hears Steve chuckle as they pull into the street - there’s not much traffic here ‘cause Amy’s street is quiet. It’ll take them maybe twenty-five, thirty minutes to get to James’ apartment building.

~

There is parking at James’ place, which James doesn’t use because he doesn’t have a car. Steve is content to leave his bike there, however, because it has security measures. 

_“It records anyone who’d try and steal it, and then she won’t start until she gets the go ahead from me. Pretty nifty.”_

James cocks his head as Steve leaves it in the parking space.

“It just…I mean…you can hotwire it though.”

 _“Nope,”_ Steve says. _“Literally can’t make the connection. The whole thing has a personally keyed emergency system if the anti-theft gets triggered. And she won’t open to hotwire. The handlebars lock, the engine won’t start, the brake pads clamp down - everything. Used to be she’d electrocute anyone who tried to take it without permission, but I asked Tony to change it.”_

“That would be cool though,” James says.

 _“Yep,”_ Steve answers. _“Also illegal.”_

“That doesn’t sound theoretical.”

Steve tilts his head from side to side.

_“Turns out that being dumb enough to try and steal Captain America’s motorcycle means you’re also dumb enough to report it to the cops when you get zapped. It wasn’t a feature I knew about at the time, and Tony took it out.”_

“They arrested the guy who tried to steal her though, right?”

_“You bet your very attractive backside they did.”_

~

Steve doesn’t take his helmet off all the way up to James’ apartment. He almost does, but then Mrs G walks past and gives Steve a funny look. She softens when she sees James.

“Did your sister find you?” she says. “She was lookin’ for ya, few Saturday’s back.”

James smiles.

“She did,” he says. “You all good, you need anythin’?”

Mrs G smiles. She’s been Mrs G for fifty nine years, and a widow for three. She’s younger than Steve.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she says, deep laugh lines and sparkling eyes. “I’m just fine for the time bein’, but thank you for askin’. This some delivery man?”

“Friend of mine,” James says, and Steve lifts a hand and waves.

“Friend o’ yours got a face?” she says.

“He do, Ma’am,” Steve says, voice muffled from inside the helmet, “but it’s near ‘nough covered in acne.”

Mrs G narrows her eyes but seems to decide that’s fair enough. James loves her to pieces and he knows her life has been hard, ain’t too easy now with her husband gone. Back in ‘67, she’s told James, she married Mr G maybe two months before the supreme court legalized interracial marriage nationwide - not that it was an issue in New York. Mr G took care of her until the day he died, and James does his best to make sure she’s all right whenever he sees her. 

“You take care now,” she says, and continues heading wherever she was headed, rounding the corner and shuffling away.

“Neighbor of yours?” Steve asks as James unlocks his door.

“Landlady,” James answers, but then he pulls the door to and turns around and looks at Steve. “Listen,” he says, “my apartment, like, I know you won’t judge me-”

“That’s right,” Steve says, and James nods.

“Okay, so I know that but also like it’s only small, okay, and I mean it’s full of the stuff that…like it’s, I’m not original, I didn’t decorate all like original and stuff. It’s all pretty…uh hipster, so…”

Steve flips the visor.

“Firstly,” he says, “I’m boiling in this thing, can we please go inside, but secondly,” and here he looks very carefully at James - all James can see is his eyes anyway but his gaze is so _intense_ \- “I happen to like hipster very much, as things turn out. Wouldn’t you say?”

James swallows hard, wets his lips and then remembers that he can’t lean on his front door because it’s open.

“Right,” he says, on the second try because his voice doesn’t work the first time around. “Just…I mean it’s not a like, designer or anything-”

“Sweetheart,” Steve rumbles, low and smooth. “I’m sure it’s fine but I don’t intend to spend a great deal of time examining the decor even if I was born in the era most of it came from. May we?”

James nods. He’s about to let Steve Rogers into his apartment. It is clean, right? Yeah, he cleaned it. It’s-

Okay yeah. Okay.

He pushes the door open and then steps aside while Steve comes in, closing the door behind him.

“Ta daa,” he says, probably not very enthusiastically. 

Steve yanks his helmet off and tosses it onto the nearest soft chair without even looking around, and stares directly at James, unblinking.

“Oh, I love it,” he says, and then grabs James by the upper arms, crowds him back against the wall and kisses him. 

James starts getting hard within about ten seconds, as Steve’s hands move to his waist instead, as Steve’s mouth moves to his throat, as one of Steve’s legs pushes between his own - it’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, he’s the kind of person who has _afternoon delight_ now for God’s sake - then Steve pulls away, fast, and looks at him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have asked before I did that, but I, uh - sorry, are you okay?”

James blinks at him because of _course!?_

“Uh, _yeah?”_ he says, why the fuck wouldn’t he be?

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Good,” he says. 

Then he crowds James up against the wall again and kisses him a second time, stoops just a little, and then his hands are on the backs of James’ knees and oh wow- 

James flails for Steve’s shoulders when Steve lifts him, when Steve actually bodily lifts him and gets James’ legs around his waist, even though they haven’t broken the kiss, and James moans into Steve’s mouth when Steve grinds his hips forward.

“Fuck, I been wantin’ you since I saw you in the bar,” Steve says against James’ throat next time he moves, fingers tightening on James’ legs, pulling James’ body against him even as he pushes it back against the wall. “Dressed up all nice, nice flush on your skin, clearly havin’ a great time without me-”

James is caught between them - his addled brain manages to think ‘rock and a hard place’ and then just plain ‘rock hard’ and he can feel Steve starting to get hard against him even through the leathers and-

Oh, that’s-

Oh, fuck, that’s gonna be a hickey if Steve isn’t careful, but it feels so _good_ -

“Yeah,” James says, tips his head back against the wall. “Yeah, it’s okay, you can-” he sort of accidentally swallows the sentence as the full meaning really hits him, “you can gimme a hickey, that’s okay-”

Steve does, shoves his face against James’ open collar and sucks a bruise, hot and stinging, just _inside_ his open shirt lapel as he hums against James’ skin, scrapes his teeth over the mark and then covers it with the flat of his tongue. If James had really been thinking he’d’ve said ‘mark me’ in a sexy voice but like Steve was sucking his neck so how would he be capable of thinking?

“Ugh, fuck,” he mutters, and Steve pulls away, looks at the bruise he’s left.

“Huh,” he says, a little out of breath, and James squirms in his arms, flexes his hips against Steve’s - Steve holds him aloft like he’s _nothing_. 

“What?” James says. “What?”

Steve looks at him, shakes his head a little. 

“You just really get me goin’s all,” he says, and then he’s kissing James again. "Couldn't believe we turned up in the same place last night, wanted to take you home with me. You made me wait another twelve hours to see you, what would all our friends have said if I'd just taken you home right then, ‘ah? As though we would have got that far. Take you out back and get you up against the wall, maybe, or maybe just get you up on the bar, have you right there, mess up all that style you had going on?"

He's all over James, hands, mouth, pretty much everywhere his body is pressed to James', and knowing that Steve wanted to do all this, knowing that Steve was exercising all the restraint he had not to just pick James up from the bar last night, knowing Steve didn't even wait two minutes after they got behind a lockable door, it's a thrill and a half - and it's like that voyeur thing James felt when he realized that Steve's bedroom only had three walls. No way would James ever do anything in front of anyone, but the thought of Steve hustling him out of a crowded bar to slam him up against a brick wall in a dark alleyway, or Steve breaking every speed limit just to get back to his apartment faster, or Steve ignoring every social norm and clearing the bar with a sweep of his arm just to lift James up onto it and follow him down after that...

Still though, it doesn't escape James' notice that Steve wanted to mess him up, apparently.

"What," James gasps as he pulls Steve against him, trying to quell the disappointment beginning in the pit of his stomach, "you didn't like the look?"

"Naw, kid, y'ever hear of liking something _too_ much?"

James feels himself smile, can't get enough breath in, can't help the delight that wells up in his chest.

"What, mascara'n everything?" he says, aware he's grinning like a lunatic.

"Mmh, I know what year it is, honey, I don't object to a damn thing as long as you like it and you ain't hurting nobody. I ain't ignorant, neither, I know what kind of skill it takes to look that good. To look as good as you do. And even if I didn't like it, I wouldn't give a good goddamn what you decide to wear on your evenings out ‘s’long’s you’re happy. Still though, how mad would you be if I told you I can't stop thinking about how you got all dolled up to go out on the town and then went out on the town with someone else?"

"Oh, you're jealous?" James tips his head back so Steve can get at his throat again.

Steve grabs James' wandering hands, pins them to the wall over James’ head with one hand while he supports James with the other, and brings his face so close that James can almost feel Steve's lips brushing his.

"How about maybe you get dressed up real nice like that just for _me_ sometime, and I'll take you apart piece by piece, how about that?"

"You mean see how Life Proof my lipstick really is?"

Steve looks at him, such as James' face as he shakes his head minutely, and sighs heavily.

“We gonna fuck or you gonna show me ‘round?” 

“There’s like three rooms,” James says. “So both?”

Steve smiles, broad and white. 

“Sounds good to me,” he says. 

He lets James down, then shakes his head and kisses him again.

“Although I don’t know,” James says. “I’m not sure I can wait three rooms.”

James absolutely lets himself be kissed, presses his body against Steve’s and considers just getting down to it right there.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Steve says, “if every time we went somewhere, first thing you always thought of was how much sex we’d had there?”

“Oh, God,” James mutters. “You’re trying to make me associate my _wall_ with getting fucked?”

“Not yet I’m not,” Steve says, and James pulls away and looks at him.

“That a threat or a promise?” he says, offhand, and Steve rolls one shoulder in a shrug.

“I mean, it’s a fact but which delivery would you prefer?”

“Ooh, threat!” James says, settles his shoulders against the wall.

Steve lowers his eyelids, turns his head just a little, and then lifts one hand to the wall, right by James’ head. He moves closer, so close James can barely focus, and his breath is hot on James’ lips when he speaks.

“I’d prefer promise,” he says and James is leaning against a wall which is a good thing considering how not-at-all his knees are working. 

“Uh,” James answers.

“Only,” Steve says, and then he actually _smells_ James’ skin, “if I wanted to make it a threat, I’d want your consent about it first.”

James has no idea what that means but all the blood rushes downwards anyway, his dick tingles as it fills the rest of the way up. 

“Consent?” he says. “I mean-”

“I’d want to turn you around and get a real look at you,” Steve says, “if I were going to threaten you.” He tugs at James’ waistband with the hand James didn’t even know was wandering. “Get these off you and take a nice long look, maybe get my fingers wet and-”

James can picture that - Steve slamming him not-quite face-first into the wall, stripping him from the waist down and using his fingers to open James up just to leave him hanging. It’s the kind of thing James really shouldn’t want, but really does.

“I mean either fuck me or don’t but this is cruel and unusual,” James says.

Steve pauses.

“A’right,” he says, and straightens up and steps back! 

_Bastard._

“Fine,” James says, dusting himself off in a vain attempt to pretend that it’ll work on his dick. “But at least now I know what a threat entails. So next time I know what I’m asking for, right?”

Steve’s eyes are still dark and his gaze drops to James’ dick through his pants before it comes back up. 

“Nice place you got here,” he says, without looking anywhere except at James. 

"You know, you are not as charming as you think you are."

"And yet here we are," Steve says. "Without being immodest, I'm clearly charming enough for you."

James chews his lower lip for a second, looks Steve up and down because he can and because he wants to, and nods slowly.

"Lucky for you," he says.

"Oh, definitely," Steve says. "And while what I've seen of your apartment looks lovely, I regret to say that, in my old age, my restraint is not as resolute as it used to be. How ‘bout you show me these three rooms you've told me so much about, huh? And make sure we finish with the bedroom."

James considers pointing in the general direction of his rooms. It wouldn't take long - dining/kitchen/living room, bathroom, bedroom. But the thing is that James wants to show Steve his apartment because Steve showed James his. He wants to point out all the things on his bookshelves, and all the ornaments on his mantle, and all the fake plants who have real names because James is a nerd and doesn't have fingers green enough to raise real plants. He wants to talk to Steve about the way he changed the decor and he wants to show Steve where he lives, because he wants Steve to be in the middle of his life. 

But then he remembers his _poster._

"Uh," he says, and Steve must either be able to see or to sense the change in his demeanor, because he raises one sardonic eyebrow and bites back a smile.

"What?" 

"I have a poster of you in my bedroom," James says. "That same one that you have, the one of you pointing, the...the 'buy war bonds' one. It's, I have it, it's right opposite my bed."

Steve's expression changes, seems to open in surprise before it becomes something entirely too cheerful for James' liking.

"You have my poster?" Steve says, and James can hear the implied 'you've been crushing on me for years?' that's so far gone unspoken.

James' face is absolutely burning. There's no way he'd get away with not telling Steve, but he kind of wishes that he hadn't said anything. How hilarious would that be? Halfway through sex, Steve turns over and there he is looking back at himself...

“You're hot!” James says. “I mean, when I was little you were my hero, and then when I was a teenager you were... My hero and also other stuff?”

“So,” Steve says, “you're trying to tell me that I'm your jerk-off material.”

“Oh my god,” James says, and he turns away, but Steve reaches out for his wrist.

“Hey, hey,” Steve says, reels him back in. “I'm sorry, honey, I don't mean to make fun. I mean, it's kind of sweet.”

“Yeah,” James says. “In a really creepy, stalkery kind of way?”

Steve visibly considers this for a moment or two, and then nods, narrowing his eyes a little.

"Yeah," he says. "Sorta? But I mean, lusting over celebrities is nothing new. And it’s not like you bought the poster assuming I’d be back here to look at it one day. Right?”

“I mean, it was a birthday gift,” James says, wow, he just admitted he jerks off to a poster of Steve he didn’t even buy himself - it’s not even a photograph, it’s a damned _painting_ oh _God_ but “plus, I thought about you,” Steve is saying and, this- what, really? “First time I saw you on R &D I thought about you after, and again after I took you up to mine and you went home. Been thinking about you since Friday anyhow," he says, stepping forward again, crooking his fingers in James' belt loops to draw James against him. "Might be weird, but I can't help it."

James stares at him, mouth hanging open.

"You," James says, "you thought about me?"

Because isn't that a nice image? Hadn't James been dreaming that Steve Rogers might do that about him someday, don't most people dream that Steve Rogers would do that about them some day? Lying back on his bed, huge fingers wrapped firmly around his dick, head back, eyes shut tight, and all those gorgeous abdominals tight as he fucks up into his own fist, with James' name a moan on his lips.

"So which is creepier?" Steve says, raising one eyebrow. "You're twenty-one. Doesn't that make me a cradle-snatcher?"

"You're over a hundred, too," James says, "which would make you a cradle-snatcher regardless.” _NO!_ “Uh, so that means you can quit worrying about it, you're clearly the exception to the rule?"

Steve looks at him for a moment, head tilted, and then nods very slowly.

"Nice save."

James gives up.

"Just don't get weird about my poster."

Steve laughs, tucks an arm around James' waist and pulls him into his side.

“Alright, he says. Show me these rooms. Presumably this is the first?”

And so James does, takes Steve around his apartment and shows him the place where he lives.

It isn't very big, not least because he lives in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is expensive but, although James can afford it, he isn't a millionaire. He has a three room apartment, and a reasonably large living space for his main rooms. The floors are hardwood, the walls are cream, and James has no fewer than two windows in his kitchen. He rented the apartment almost on that alone.

The kitchen is a reasonable size, too, and it has a hob, and a microwave. He has an oven, too, but he only uses it to bake, and that's not very often. His fridge freezer's a standard size for a small Brooklyn apartment, and his work surfaces are probably from around the late 90s. But they're clean, and they're relatively undamaged, and they work for James. He does have wooden shelves lining the walls, and wooden cupboards, and he has a pan rack hanging from the ceiling for his pots and utensils, that Mrs G gave him special permission to install. There's a small, rickety wooden table that lives in the corner of the kitchen, which he'll eat at sometimes, but it's easier to stand and eat at the counter, or perch on one of the stools.

He doesn't have a dishwasher, as that kind of thing is an unreasonable luxury in the middle of New York. His building has laundry in the basement, but James is actually pretty glad there isn't a machine in his apartment. He doesn't have to pay for its upkeep, or its electricity, if he can just go downstairs and stick a quarter in the damn thing. Plus, the humidity would cause him no end of trouble in the summer.

Steve is intrigued by the fake plants that line the windowsill and some of the shelves. He's more intrigued when James tells him they have names, and he smiles, chucks his finger under a plastic leaf or two and then looks at James with an unreasonably fond expression.

"It's just nice to have somebody to talk to sometimes," James says, and Steve's expression softens even further somehow. 

He can well understand that, James is sure.

James' living room is only separated from the kitchen by the back of a gray couch, which has a thick, multi-colored rag blanket hungover the back of it. There's a similar blanket on the floor, although that one is mostly white and gray, and another beige one on the armchair over by the back wall. James doesn't have a television or a mantel or a fireplace, and he catches Steve looking around with his eyes narrowed.

At first, he thinks maybe Steve doesn't like his photographs on the walls. Some of them are Becca’s, some of them are just prints that James likes. He's got a couple of holiday snaps in frames on various surfaces, and most of his furniture is second hand and wooden, because that's what he likes. But then he faces James again.

"This used to be two, didn't it, two apartments?" he says, and James looks around.

"I think so, yeah," he says. "They changed the building layout before Mr and Mrs G took over."

Steve is nodding slowly.

"Yeah, that makes sense. I used to know buildings like this. Used to live in one, actually, our place’d be about the size of your living room, probably a little smaller. Tub, stove, one really old armchair an’ a couple of really old beds."

James feels his eyebrows go up.

"You guys all share one toilet?”

"We all shared one outhouse,” Steve says, “it was absolute hell in winter.”

"I'm sure it was fun in summer.”

Steve laughs.

"We used to put an old door across the tub, give us a table. Don't even know where we got a tub from, last people in must have left it 'cause there was no way he could'a hauled it all the way up the stairs. Come to think of it, I don't know where we got the door from either.”

"Sounds great,” James says.

But Steve doesn't quite seem to be seeing the apartment as much anymore. Instead his gaze has turned distant and his smile has turned nostalgic.

"It wasn't easy," he says, “wasn't even nice some of the time. A lot of the time. It's weird, you'd think I wouldn't miss it, wouldn't you?"

James, whose arm is still around Steve the way Steve's is around him, rubs between Steve's shoulder blades.

"Home's home," he says softly, and Steve nods a little more. 

"Hey there, nice bookcases."

And whether he's trying to move the conversation on, or he's just genuinely interested in James's bookshelves, he's right. The bookshelves are from an old book store that closed down the road. He remembers Becca texting him about it in all caps, and helping him bring them in. Turns out they were only IKEA flat pack stuff so they weren't even that difficult to carry at all. And James' growing collection of books always needs more storage. Some of his kitchen shelves have the books on, and there are permanent residents on the coffee table that really ought to have a better place.

He does have a wall hanging in the living room, from when they went to Thailand when he was like ten. It's actual Thai silk, and he dreads to think how much it must have cost, but it brightens the place up, and looks really nice against the plants he's got hanging from the ceiling, which are just as fake as the ones in the kitchen.

"You got a lot of fake plants," Steve says.

"Remembering to dust them once a month is way easier than remembering to water them every day," he says, and Steve snorts a laugh.

James doesn't have a television set, or a radio, because he has an aging laptop, a reasonably new tablet, and he now has a brand new StarkPhone, Spotify Premium, and Netflix on both his own account and Steve's. He does have some interesting lighting going on, little things that he's picked up from fairs or in the stores, a little humidifier that looks like it goes on forever and ever on the inside, a small mirror on a shelf by the door that lights up if he presses a button and becomes an infinity mirror.

He also has fairy lights woven all over the place. Just warm white, of course, but they line his bookshelves and his plant shelves, and spill down the side of one of the second-hand tables in the corner, hanging from the same hooks as his Thai silk wall hanging. They’re his special little luxury, and he rarely uses them but loves it when they're on. One set looks like little succulents climbing the wall until he turns them on.

James shows Steve the bathroom because it's fairly small, and it's just down the hall. There's a toilet, a sink, and a very small square shower stall, with a shower head that doesn't detach. Up by the ceiling is a little frosted rectangle of glass that will open three inches outwards to allow for fresh air if he needs it, because the room does have a ventilation system if the condensation gets too much but usually he just lives with it. There's a very small cabinet in the corner of the room that really takes up more space than he'd like, but there's no medicine cabinet over the sink - just a mirror - so it's either keep a small cabinet in the corner, or keep all of his toiletries in his bedroom. He tried that for a while. It doesn't work, because nothing is worse than being halfway through a shower and realizing your shampoo is two rooms away.

James is lucky to have a bedroom the size of his, especially considering where he lives. He knows that most apartments don't have bedrooms this size. He also knows that part of the reason his bedroom is so big is because his bathroom is so small. He still nervous about showing it to Steve though, and he pushes open the door and waits for Steve's reaction.

James' bedroom is not his pride and joy. He's not that obsessive about it. It is, like the rest of the place, white-walled with hardwood floors. But he likes this room more than the others. It doesn't have as many fake plants, it doesn't have as many pieces of furniture, but he does have a small desk in the corner on which he likes to work, over which hang light-up clothes pegs on a wire, in which are pinned photographs of himself at college, himself at high school, photographs of his family, postcards of the places that he's visited, postcards from friends, and a ton of other little pieces of paper that he can't stand to get rid of. He's got a cork notice board, and a little fake plant on the desk, and his swivel chair fits him really nicely.

The overhead lamps in this room have paper lantern lampshades on them, except for one which has a star-shaped lampshade that he got for his eleventh birthday. He's got a light up globe, and one of those light-boxes that looks like an old movie sign, that you slide your own letters onto. His currently reads, _'YOUR NAME'_ , because Becca thinks she's funny, and actually kind of is.

He has some shelves, on which there are more books and some trinkets that he can't let go off, and he's made a sort of makeshift canopy above his head with some of the large pieces of fabric that he picked up when the textiles department were having a clear-out at college. He thought about a baldaquin, but changed his mind - that's just a little bit too intrusive for his liking. This way, he has way more control over how much fabric and how far the drape.

Yes, those are dream-catchers on the wall, and yes, he made at least two of them. There's another wall hanging behind the headboard of his bed, although that one came from Target, and, opposite the foot of his bed, staring directly at him from across his bedroom while he lies in bed at night, is the war bonds poster starring Steve.

He has a small closet, slate colored curtains with a white cotton blind over the window, that's directly next to him when he sits up in the morning in his queen size bed, and he has fairy lights everywhere he can put them, including on the canopy that he's made from the fabric, so that if he lies in bed and looks up it's like a bright star field over his head. 

He's got some really cool pastel colored ones, too, but he rarely puts them on. They like a surprise, or a secret. They change color over his head in gorgeous muted brights, and fill the whole room with the sort of color you might find if you lived under water, or in the middle of a nebula.

It's nowhere near original decor. In fact, it probably looks like every other hipster bedroom in New York, but James loves it.

"Here's where the magic happens," he says, and then, "please pretend I didn't say that."

Steve laughs softly, and then lets go of James to walk into the middle of the room and look around for himself, planting himself firmly on the thick nap rug that James uses to protect his feet from the shock of the cold hardwood in the morning.

James, having given him the tour arm in arm, only now notices how tiny his apartment looks when Steve is standing in the middle of it. Steve is _huge_ in comparison to a room that's barely taller than he is, like trying to put a sequoia in a window box, but when Steve has looked around the entire room and finally turns back to James, he's smiling, eyes sparkling.

"I know it's not very original," James says.

"I love it," Steve answers. "I love it."

He takes another look around the room, smiles a little more, and then looks at James. After a few moments, his gaze slides down with very slowly, and then comes back up. Somehow, even the way he blinks next is suggestive of what's going through his mind, and James feels his blood warm a few degrees just under Steve's stare alone.

"Queen size bed, huh?" he says. "How long have you had it?"

"Long as I've been in the apartment," James says.

"Interesting," Steve answers. "I've only got doubles. Mind if we try it out?"

James wets his lips.

“I mean, the walls are kind of thin so like…You know, we have to…I mean, we don’t _have_ to be quiet but it might piss of my neighbors.”

"Good idea," Steve says. "You got a towel you can lend me?"

~

The sex train gets derailed, however, not long after it’s left the station, and James hopes his brain never thinks the words ‘sex train’ again. They’ve both showered, they’re both naked in James’ actual bedroom in his actual apartment with the blind drawn and the sunlight streaming through anyway, Steve is _actually here in his apartment on his bed_ and, as per one of James’ favorite scenarios, he’s under Steve, Steve's legs between his, Steve's tags on his chest, both of them grasping and grappling, both of them out of breath, touching and tasting anywhere they can reach, James’ head back on a moan, Steve’s mouth hot on his throat-

“Lube,” Steve says, “where’s the-”

“Yeah,” James says, good plan, the _best_ , “it’s in…”

Steve must feel him freeze, and pushes up to look at him.

“What?” he says. “Where, the bathroom?”

James winces.

“It’s in the nightstand,” he says and, as Steve starts to lean across, he clarifies, “at your place.”

Steve pauses, chuckles and draws his arm back.

“Oh man,” he says. “Oh wow, seriously?”

“Shit, Jesus,” James says, “I brought it to yours, God I’m so stupid-”

Steve rolls onto his back and sighs.

Then he turns his head towards James, cranes his neck for a kiss.

“It’s all right, honey, we…uh…”

Wait, they can’t go out and get any because firstly Steve is too well known to go to local pharmacies to grab lube and then to come back to some random guy’s apartment. Like even James isn’t naïve enough to think they’d get away with that. 

But James can’t really go right now either, nor does he want to. Will his boner to subside, get all the way dressed, go all the way out, buy a bunch of stuff he doesn’t need (uh, because no way is he buying just lube), and then come all the way back only to like need to take another shower and then try and get back in the mood-

Obviously, like, it’s not going to be hard to get back in the mood when it’s _Steve_ but still-

He doesn’t wanna. He gets his lube online and that takes at least a day, and that’s if he uses his premium membership. 

“Listen, I’ll go get some later or something, for now we can just…” Steve shrugs, wriggles around on the bed, “we can just do somethin’ that doesn’t need lube - you showered?”

“Huh?” James says. “Of course I showered, we were gonna-”

Steve frowns, shakes his head.

“I don’t mean nothin’ by it, I just wanna eat you out, babe,” he says, and James feels his whole body warm. “How ‘bout you get on your stomach, get that pretty peach of yours up for me, hm?”

“A peach?” James says, caught halfway between amusement and ridiculously turned on.

He hears foil packaging.

“Sweet, juicy,” Steve says, “covered in a very fine fuzz-”

James claps his hands over his face.

“Oh my god,” he says, and then Steve’s weight shifts, and then James startles when he gets Steve’s mouth on his chest, the tags cool on his stomach`. “Oh!”

“Hmmm,” Steve says, just kind of making out with James’ chest and what the hell, but it’s nice though, it feels nice-

“What are you,” James says, but he stretches under Steve’s attention, smiles. 

Steve holds him - gently, as though he’s precious - warm skin on James’ body and it’s so _nice_ , it’s such a slow kind of good.

Steve sucks his skin but doesn’t bruise him any more, which James isn’t sure whether he’s disappointed about or not. 

“Turn over, honey,” Steve says, and he sucks at one of James’ nipples.

“Can I _not_ turn over?” James says, and Steve manhandles him until he can get between James’ legs - gives James the condom he snagged before he hooks his hands under Jame’s knees.

“Depends how flexible you are,” Steve says. 

“What?” James asks, putting on the condom.

Which is obviously what he wants because, as soon as James is done, Steve pulls James towards him by his legs, kneels up and like-

“Holy _shit,”_ James says - Steve basically tips him upside down to stands him on his shoulders, and bends him in two so that his head and shoulders are on the mattress, his back is up against Steve’s front, and his ass is like directly below Steve’s face, legs hanging over his own head.

“Uncomfortable?” Steve asks.

James’ brain is still the right way up at this point and it takes him a second to figure out what the hell he means. 

“Uh, I, I can, I’m staring my dick in the face?” James says.

“That’s why you got a condom on,” Steve answers. “I’m gonna hold you up like this, don’t worry about that, but you can breathe okay?”

James is scrunched up double with his ass way up over his head but he can _feel Steve’s breaths_ on his ass and his balls and _he_ can breathe just fine, he’s able to drop his arms and grab hold of Steve’s thighs and his chin is kind of crunched against his chest but he’s managing. 

“Yeah?” he says, a little shakily, and Steve chooses that moment to spread James’ ass with the heels of his hands, as far as he’ll go - James’ body clenches down in response, he can’t help it, and he knows Steve’s seen from the look Steve gives him. 

It’s _mortifying_ \- he’s literally ass-up, Steve’s _right there_ and part of him wants to die that Steve’s looking at him in this position. James’ face is burning, even though this isn’t the first time, even though he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last, because Steve- Steve is _right there_.

“There’s a book about this isn’t there?” Steve asks and James, just about able to see the top of Steve’s face between his own legs, has no idea what he’s talking about.

 _“What?”_ he says.

“How to Eat a Peach,” Steve answers, and then proceeds to demonstrate enthusiastically, and all James can really do is find somewhere to put his hands so he can hold on, and try to get enough breath to piss off the neighbors.

~

Steve comes back into the bedroom wiping his chin with a face-cloth and, as he sits back down on the bed, James can smell the mouthwash. Steve leans over him and kisses him without prompting, and then swipes a hand through the sweat on James’ torso. 

“Good?” he says.

“Hmm, yeah,” James says, smiling as his heart rate continues in its attempts to return to normal. 

“Good,” Steve says, and he lies back on the bed, sighs heavily. “What next?” he asks, and James bites his lip.

He knows what he wants to ask but, honestly, he’s not sure if it counts as being greedy.

“Can I,” he says, confidence wavering, “watch you?” 

Steve’s eyebrows go up, but the corner of his mouth turns just a little, a smile that seems surprised and flattered at the same time. 

“Sure,” he says, leans up to get a kiss, and then strokes a hand down his torso and wraps his fingers around his dick. 

He rumbles a moan as he starts to stroke, and wets his lips, and James props himself up on one elbow and kisses him this time. He kisses down from Steve’s mouth, over his throat to his nipple, and Steve draws a deep breath and sighs, hand coming up to the back of James’ head. 

James loves the taste of his skin, loves the warmth under his lips, could spend hours doing this and thinks, madly, that he’d much prefer to live off Steve if he could. Forget oxygen - he’d breathe Steve in for the rest of his life. He’d have Steve for starter, main and dessert if-

“Oh, shit, wait!” James says, probably very suddenly if the look Steve gives him is anything to go by. “No, I mean, no, I mean, I- Wait, I made sugar cookies once!”

Steve kind of blinks at him, raises one incredibly sardonic eyebrow, and lets go of his dick as James all but levitates off the bed and dashes out of the bedroom.

It doesn’t take James long because his kitchen is small and his apartment is small and he knows where everything is but the look on Steve’s _face_ when James walks back in-

“Is that _Crisco?”_ he says, and then cracks up.

James feels a little like an idiot, feels his enthusiasm slip a little, and looks down at the tin in his hand. 

“But,” he says, “it works…”

Steve sits up, reaches out to him.

“I know it does,” he says, still chuckling. “Sorry - just I usually see it used for fisting-” James’ brain goes wonky “-and it was kind of a surprise. I’d recommend we don’t try _that_ just yet but pass it over, sure. God, good job, kiddo, I’d’a never thought’a that.”

James kind of stares at him.

“Uh,” he says, because Steve said _yet_ and the thought of Steve lying on his bed with his arms cuffed to the headboard, legs tied open, head thrown back in ecstasy while James has a whole hand inside of him, hole stretched soft and pink around James’ wrist, skin flushed and sweating -

“James?” Steve says and, oh shit, right, Steve still has his hand out.

James hands him the Crisco, and Steve turns back to lie on the bed. 

“I only got one clean hand,” he says. “You want me to do it or you wanna go wash your hands, get a little out, huh?”

James knows what that means, but he still isn’t quite sure he’s about to be that lucky.

“Me?” he says. “I can?”

Steve cocks his head.

“You don’t _have_ to-”

“No, like _I get to_?”

Steve laughs a little, not quite confused.

“Yeah?” he says. “Kid, is there any way I can convince you that my default is that I _like_ you doing things?”

James purses his lips together.

“Probably the same way I convince you my default is that I want to,” he says.

Steve’s gaze slides sideways.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding a little, and then a little more as his gaze slides back. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.” He thinks for a few more seconds, puts the Crisco down on the nightstand. “Come here’n kiss me, let’s start over.”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Steve pulls James down on top of him, because of course he does, and kisses him softly. It’s hot, too, not just because he’s on top of Steve in his own bed, in his own apartment, both of them naked, both of them already sweaty, but because Steve is huge in comparison. Steve’s hands cover James’ shoulder blades completely, his stomach is hard and ridged but his skin is warm, and he makes soft, gentle little sounds as he kisses the living daylights out of James, hands roaming just enough to make all of James’ nerves start to hum under his skin.

“Should we start over?” Steve says, mouthing at James’ throat.

He rolls his hips up as he spreads his legs under James, one of his legs between James’, one of James’ between his own, pulling him impossibly closer as he turns his head.

“Hi,” Steve murmurs against James’ ear. “My name’s Steve and I’d like to have sex with you.”

“Mmh, my James names I’d like to sex…with you too?” James says realizing halfway through that something wasn’t right about that, and then there’s a pause that probably feels a lot longer than it actually is, during which the inkling James had that he just made a mistake somewhere turns into a full-color slow-mo action replay of his own words inside his head.

He groans and drops his head onto Steve’s shoulder.

Steve cackles.

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” he says.

“Well it’s your fault,” James tells him. 

“Ohh, of course,” Steve says soothingly, stroking one palm down James’ spine. “You ready to sex with me, names?” 

“Alright Captain Smooth,” James says, “but you can just-”

“ _Commander_ Smooth, I’ll have you know-”

“- _try_ and make Crisco sound sexy.”

“I thought you were taking care of the Crisco,” Steve says, and James huffs a laugh as he lifts his head.

“Yeah,” he says.

Steve reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind James’ ear, and searches James’ face.

“I’ll be honest,” Steve says, “even though I know it works, I understand it’s a logistical nightmare. Do you know how hard it is to get Crisco out of bedsheets?”

“Mmm,” James says. “I mean, no, but I know how hard it was to get out of a dishcloth.”

James sighs, shakes his head.

“Didn’t feel great when I was cooking either,” he says.

Steve looks…comfortable, James thinks. Not disappointed, but ready to stop if James wants to stop. 

“What’cha wanna do?” Steve says, and James just looks down at Steve Rogers, all smooth, pale skin and afternoon shadow, the harsh contrasts of the sunlight muted by James’ cotton blind.

Steve looks like those photos you get in coffee table books full of male models, lit like a Vermeer but sculpted like a Michaelangelo. 

“I just wanna watch,” he says softly, feeling the blush rise in his cheeks. “I just wanna watch you. Just show me.”

Steve nods slowly, smiles a sweet, pleased little smile.

“Well I can certainly manage that,” he says. “Pick a side.”

James does, rolls off to Steve’s left, so that Steve has his arm around James’ shoulders and James isn’t obstructing all that sunlight painting Steve in such gorgeous swathes. (Okay, so the credit probably doesn’t lie with the sunlight, but he’s gorgeous all the same.) James is mainly on his side, too, which means he’s still got a hand free to settle on Steve’s chest, and he can still lean down for a kiss. Which he does.

Steve very obviously starts touching himself while James is kissing him, because he doesn’t even try to stop the groan he gives, or the hitch in his breath as he opens his mouth under James’. Despite the fact that Steve’s arm is around him, it makes James feel very much in charge of the situation. 

It’s a little daunting actually.

“Y’okay?” Steve says when they break, wets his lips a moment later and tilts his head back just a little.

James nods, sits up a little more so he can really look down at Steve and this, this is absolutely a fantasy come to life. He likes a particular aesthetic, surrounds himself with lights and fabrics so that the space he keeps as his own is soft - muted and calming like a hideaway. It means that Steve is lying on clean white sheets under a gauzy canopy in the light of a late afternoon, surrounded by pillows and gentle light and floaty fabric. His skin is flawless, his rhythm is slow and sure, and he looks like something out of a dream.

A very specific type of dream - James almost kind of wants to take a picture, but Steve’s free arm is strong and warm around him, Steve’s toes are curled against James’ bedsheets, and Steve’s gaze is resolutely fixed on James’ own. That feels pretty awesome by itself - Steve looks at James like James is the only thing he wants to see for the rest of his life. It occurs to him a moment later that he can touch, too, and he strokes his fingers over Steve’s sternum, along his collar bone, cups the edge of one pec in his palm because Steve’s huge all over and that’s all that’ll fit, and then he draws his fingers back into not-quite a pinch and rolls Steve’s nipple between his thumb, and fore and middle fingers.

A little line appears between Steve’s eyebrows and his mouth opens just a little more, and James wets his lips reflexively when Steve does it first, tightens his fingers a little. 

Steve makes a soft little sound and tilts his head back on the bed, holds James a little tighter just because the tension in his body increases. James knows the signs to look for by now, but he can’t help but be a little disappointed when Steve slows right down. He’s not even nearly close, not yet, but it’s evident that he’s wanting to make it last at least a little while.

James looks at him because he can - drinks in the sight of him, and there’s a _lot_ to take in. James tries his best not to get distracted by the gorgeous curve of Steve’s cock, wet and red in his fist, he really does, but Steve gets hard - really hard - fast, and there’s something so incredibly sexy about seeing it. It’s like his body’s always at a hundred miles an hour whenever he wants, like he’s so turned on on the time that he literally can’t help it. James doesn’t doubt he knows how to control it, but James gets hard in stages. He gets the tingle, his cock starts to fill, once it’s up it’s up, but he doesn’t get as hard as Steve is now - really hard, skin smooth and red, cock straining upward - until he’s about to come. Steve’s already like that now, breaths shivering out.

He wets his lips again, already breathing hard enough to dry them, and James looks at his chest where it rises and falls, at his throat where his pulse flutters, his eyes. He finds that Steve’s watching him when he finally gets back to looking at Steve’s eyes, searching James’ face, making all these pretty little micro-expressions as he just watches James watching him.

The repetitive motion of Steve’s arm in James’ periphery and the gentle sound of metal tag on metal tag that the movement produces just cements what’s happening in James’ mind, and he feels that overwhelming sense of luck again, of surreality. He knows, if he turns his head, a hand-painted Captain America likeness with a wry smile points in his general direction from the far wall, but he has _Steve Rogers_ on his bed and, as much as he enjoys the sex, as much as Steve seems to enjoy the sex, James knows the best person to please yourself is yourself. Nobody knows you better, nobody gets the minutiae of each movement, the precision of each touch, not the way you do - and it’s a pleasure to watch.

James can’t help but touch him, follows all the lines of his muscles, traces hairlines and veins, feels the difference between the smooth skin and the soft skin - shoulders, jaw, and then throat and inner arm, he’s gorgeous, and James doesn’t object when Steve holds him closer - it isn’t Steve’s fault, his body’s just doing that, holding tighter, moving faster, pressing harder. He watches Steve’s whole frame gradually lie flatter, gradually become more tense and, without really thinking about it, James trails his hand up over Steve’s chest and cradles his face instead, stares down at him because he can’t help it, smiles because he can’t help that either.

“Hmm,” he says, feeling somewhere between turned-on and immeasurably grateful.

For an instant, Steve’s tense enough that his head and shoulders press into the bed and then, eyes fixed on James, he goes suddenly boneless, says, 

“ _Ohn,_ James-” in a voice that’s little more than a rush of breath, and then his whole upper body curls forwards so James has to take his hand away - chest up first, then his head, mouth open, brows pinched, and then he slumps back down into the bedclothes with a noise like somebody’s punched him, cut off a moment later when he does it again - snaps forward and groans, and then lies flat, coming on his fingers and the curve of his lower stomach while James just watches him. 

When it seems like he’s done, James kisses him, smiles when they part. Steve’s smiling breathlessly as well, waits a moment and then looks down at his dick. James looks, too, so they’re both watching when he squeezes the length of it, foreskin bunching up at the head, the last of it his orgasm drooling out over his knuckles as he gives another of those long, punched out sighs.

James sits up, bats at Steve’s now loose fingers and swallows his still-half-hard dick in one move, and Steve makes a wounded noise before his clean hand comes down onto the back of James’ neck. James feels the aborted movement of Steve’s hips as he fights against flexing them upward, and ignores the taste in favor of the way Steve just seems to kind of come apart as he sucks. It’s not that he dislikes it, he’s just indifferent. Steve however? 

Yeah, James is pretty sure he approves.

“Nn,” Steve says, “N- Ja- _ames, no,_ ” so James pulls off with a pop, strokes with his hand while he looks at Steve, smug.

“Oh sorry,” he says. “That’s too much?”

Steve blows out a breath that’s almost a laugh but is also kind of shaky, and then gives James a look much like the words _you’ve got a nerve, kid,_ so James stretches back out and kisses him. 

James doesn’t intend for it to be as deep as it is, but Steve doesn’t let him go once he’s started, not for a good long while. 

When they finally break apart, James is draped across Steve, and Steve has…wiped his hand on his thigh, actually, and James snorts. 

“What?” Steve says, and James shakes his head.

“I mean,” he says. “I dated a guy who _hated_ kissing me after I blew him.”

“Ah-huh?” Steve answers. “Firstly, why would I ask you to do something I wouldn’t? But also, presumably, that guy never jerked off in a trench in Europe and then realized he couldn’t wipe his hand on his uniform.”

James blinks, feels his mouth drop open and, yeah, again, James kind of has to give that to him.

“Are you telling me you-”

“Not just me,” Steve says. “Unless there was like…a stream or leaves around or something. It was war. We didn’t get wet wipes and facecloths. I mean, I told you I ate grass-”

“You-”

“And pine cones.”

“Pine cones?”

“Just so you know, pine cones suck,” Steve says again, and then grins. “But not as well as I do.”

James snorts, rolls away from Steve as he laughs.

“Oh my God.”

***

By the time evening rolls around, Steve is starting to get stubble on his jaw that’s enough to darken it. This isn’t a five o’clock shadow by usual standards, although it is the Steve Rogers equivalent. This is almost enough to be called a beard, although not quite. He’s leaving it because it’s a Saturday, and he’ll be going to church tomorrow morning - usually he would have shaved at least once by now. James doesn’t mind it at all - especially because he hasn’t trimmed it into the weird circle-beard yet, so it softens his jaw and give him a distinguished air (not that he didn’t look distinguished before), without making him look too much like a stranger.

Steve takes a sip from his coffee mug and sits down at the table, opposite James.

“So,” he says. “You hungry?”

“Yes?” James says, because obviously? 

They spent the whole afternoon expending energy, of course he’s hungry? Plus, Steve might have had a couple of his nutrition supplements, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t prefer something way tastier.

“What are you thinkin’,” James says. “Pizza?”

Steve smiles, and gets up from the table. 

“No,” he says. He goes over to the small bag that he brought with him, unzips it, and pulls from it a canvas grocery bag. Firstly, trust Steve to have canvas grocery bags, and James bites back a smile is Steve brings the bag over.

Secondly, Steve starts pulling things from the bag and setting them on the table, and James is a little bit confused about all the little tins and packages of fish, chicken, small amounts of meat, and salad vegetables, until Steve put the bottle on table that James picks up to read.

It's a bottle of rice vinegar, and what follows it is a package of ‘nori’ sheets, and a bag of sushi rice.

Then, what looks like two small bundles of very thin sticks.

"Oh my God," James says, "when did you get this?"

"Remember when I said I needed to pick a few things up from the store?" Steve says. "Well this is what I was going for. I thought you and I could make dinner together tonight. If you like."

James says at the bottle in his hands, and then at the assortment of foods spread out on his kitchen table. When he looks at Steve, he can see that Steve is doing a very good job of hiding the fact that he's waiting anxiously for an answer.

"This," James says. "I forgot I even told you I wanted to do this. Oh my God?"

"I didn't know what kind of stuff you wanted in sushi," Steve says. "I know you said you didn't mind fish, and you liked chicken, and there's some duck in there somewhere. I bought chives, and carrots and cucumber, and there's some raw tuna if you want raw tuna but I think you said you didn't like it? I also have smoked salmon. And...sesame seeds?” He spots them a moment later and picks them up. “Yeah, there they are.” He turns them to face James. “I really should have asked this before, but do you have sugar and salt?"

"Yeah!" James says, and he almost reaches out for Steve's hand, before he hesitates about it. 

Steve must see him, because he frowns, and reaches out himself, takes James' hand in his own and kisses the backs of James' knuckles. It's going to be difficult, but it shouldn't be impossible to keep going the way they have up until now. James can totally manage.

"Is there something that you can eat in there?" he asks a moment later, his voice low.

James nods. 

"I love all of it except the raw tuna. How do you even know how to do this?"

"Honestly? YouTube for the most part, but I had a friend who used to tell me about it. One of those fireside things - one of them would talk about how nice his village was, one of them would talk about what his education was like, or weapons or whatnot et cetera, et cetera, and Jim used to talk about the food his _sobo_ made. His Grandma."

"Jim Morita?" James asks.

Steve only hesitates a little, and it's only long enough to smile that rueful smile. How strange it must be, James thinks, to mention friends and have the whole country know who you’re talking about, without any one of them having known them. It would be like, James thinks, if everyone he knew died but people could still tell him Amy’s surname without knowing what her voice even sounded like. His mind shies away from that kind of comparison, he can’t really grasp the totality of losing _everyone and everything_ , with only a few old buildings and museum cases to remind him who he was. 

“Sorry,” James says, but Steve waves him off.

"The very same," he says softly. "You know he's got a grandson over in Queens?"

"Ew," James says reflexively.

Steve holds out a hand in James' direction, essentially pointing with his entire hand.

 _"Thank_ you!" he says. "I mean, one of the boroughs is better than none of the boroughs, but his family moved from Fresno and picked _Queens?"_

James is a little bit surprised that somebody who must have heard so much about the wonders of Brooklyn would live in Queens instead - voluntarily - but like it's their choice, he supposes. Still,

"Have you asked him why?"

Steve's smile fades a little, and then he looks down, away.

"No," Steve says. "He's a teacher, like, a principal. He's got a family and a steady day job and he lives and works in New York. it's not exactly safe or stress-free, he doesn't need me comin' in and gumming up the works."

James blinks.

"So, but like, have you even spoken to him?"

"No," Steve answers. "Don't you think that would be weird for me to turn up at his school and be all, 'hey so I knew this guy round about a century ago and, seeing as how you look exactly like him, I thought it would be totally not creepy at all to make friends with you.'"

James very carefully considers what he's going to say next before he actually says it, but still decides that his best decision is to move forward.

"You...realize," he says very slowly, "you basically just described our entire situation?"

He watches one of Steve's eyes narrow slightly, watches Steve's gaze slide off to one side for a moment, and then bites the inside of his cheek as hard as he can when he sees the realization dawn on Steve's face.

"Listen carefully," Steve says, pointing a finger in James' direction, "shut up."

James laughs, and Steve smiles.

"Come on," he says, "we're doing the rice, and it'll take a while, so up and at 'em, kidoo. Let's get a wiggle on."

A...Wiggle on?

"A wiggle on?" he says, and the tips of Steve's ears go pink.

"You know I was stationed in England, right?"

"Oh yeah," James says, "it's totally adorable. I just like making fun of you."

Steve rolls his eyes and picks up the rice.

"Well, come and make fun of me over here," he says, turning towards the sink. "We gotta wash the rice first - you got a bowl?"

James smiles, and goes for the cupboard.

~

Making sushi, it turns out, is not difficult at all. Theoretically. Seasoned rice goes on the seaweed sheets, fillings go at the top in a line, roll it up, slice it up, and there you have it. 

In reality, however, James is looking at a countertop full of ingredients, and slowly becoming aware that neither of them is a sushi chef, and that he has no idea where to start. Steve is more experienced at it than James is, he has at least attempted it before. And you can't really go wrong with anything as long as the assembled ingredients taste good.

Even if they don't manage beautiful, neat, appetizing rolls, even if they wind up with a bowl full of bits and pieces of the ingredients, they still have the seaweed, the rice, the fish, the duck, and the vegetables. How bad can it be to just eat a forkful?

Still though, Steve mixes up the seasoning out of rice wine, sugar, and salt, and James smells it. It smells like vinegar, with sugar and salt, obviously. The rice, unsurprisingly - even after a half hour of sitting by itself on the counter - smells like rice. James has never really been a fan of the smell of cooked rice until it has other things with it, and so he tries not to look skeptical. Steve is going about this as though he does it everyday, and James, who is starting to wonder whether this might be the first culinary failure he witnesses from Steve, does his best not to think about the sushi he gets served in restaurants, or buys from the grocery store. 

He'll eat what Steve makes, of course he will. He's just not sure how it's going to measure up against, say, Sushi Yasuda. Or even YO sushi over on 3rd.

He worries about it precisely until the moment Steve has stirred the seasoning into the rice enough that he considers it good enough for James to smell. Then, quite suddenly, James is not smelling rice and vinegar but, instead, the unmistakable scent of sushi fills his nostrils. He must look relieved, because the corner of Steve's mouth ticks up.

"Good?" Steve asks, in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer.

"Yeah," James answers.

Steve reaches out and grabs a fork from beside the sink, lifts the lid briefly, gets a small amount on the end of the tines, and holds the fork out towards James. James opens his mouth for it, takes the mouthful, and immediately wonders why he hasn't been eating warm, seasoned sushi rice for every meal forever. He does not mention the fact that Steve makes exactly the same faces as James - mouth open, eyebrows up, mouth closed - as he's feeding James the morsel.

"Taste okay?"

"Yeah," James says enthusiastically. "It tastes great."

Steve looks very pleased to hear this, and then set the fork down, lid already back on the pan of rice.

"Gotta let it cool now," he says. "We'll give it like another half an hour, see how it's doing."

James smiles as he nods. He's certain they can find something to do with half an hour.

~

Steve has bought two bamboo mats, so that they can do this side by side. James has never done this before whereas Steve often makes himself sushi for lunch if he feels like it, and so Steve covers James' bamboo mat in Saran Wrap and then moves the bowl of rice between the two of them, along with a bowl of water each, and another clean dishcloth.

He spent a little time chopping and slicing all the ingredients he'd bought, so they now have a selection of fish and meat, and of vegetables, as well as a piping bag full of cream cheese. 

"Okay?" Steve says, and he starts up, and James blinks and then hurries to get with the program. 

He has no idea what he's doing. 

Steve puts a slice of seaweed on the mat and then grabs a handful of rice, and starts sort of like....sort of pressing it down? Kind of?

So James tries this. 

He gets absolutely nowhere.

"What the fuck," he says, because now what he has is a sheet of seaweed stuck to the rice that's stuck to his hand.

Steve glances in his direction and then laughs, a short, sudden burst of sound that suggests he's been taken by surprise.

"Oh wow, oh, sorry," he says, "you're supposed- if you- make your hands wet first, get 'em in the water."

James stops flapping his sushi-hand and just gives Steve a _look_ , and Steve snorts a laugh at his _you-couldn't-have-said-this-before?_ expression.

"Start over, Honey," Steve says softly, "you'll never get that off in one piece."

James rolls his eyes.

"My hands are clean," he says, "I'm'a put it in a bowl, I'll fuckin' eat it anyways."

Steve laughs softly, and finishes flattening out the rice on his seaweed on his mat. It looks nice and even, which makes the task all the more daunting for James. Worse, it means Steve - who has done this before and is ready to continue - is now totally free to watch James. 

James scrapes the rice and seaweed off his hand with a butter knife, into an empty bowl that's off to one side. Then he dunks his hand in the bowl of water and finds, much like with sand, that it simply drops away once it's wet.

"Huh," he says, and takes his hand back out of the bowl.

It's weird to not-dry it - the urge to pat it against the dishcloth is strong - but he manages, scooping up a sort of like...quenelle of rice, just because of the nature of the shape of his hand. He dumps it on the seaweed, and Steve sticks out a finger, pointing at the bowl.

"More water," he says, and James does - gets both hands nice and wet.

Then he starts to press the rice. It doesn't look like Steve's. Steve's is nice and even, James' is lumpy and weird. The rice itself is translucent, so Steve's rice is all uniformly one color across the sheet. James' has patches of white, and patches of bluishness, where the rice is pressed down more. James pushes against the grains with his fingertips, frowning, but Steve leans over.

"Sweetheart," he says, hand hovering near James' sheet. "You wanna spread it, 'stead'a squishin'."

James blinks at his hands, looks over at Steve's. Yeah _that_ would explain it.

"Oh," he says, and gets his hands wet again. 

Steve smiles, takes a step back, and James finds how much better the whole thing goes if he spreads the rice, instead of trying to push them into submission. For starters, they actually move where he tries to make them go (so long as he keeps his hands wet, which he realizes when he almost sticks the stuff to him again). Once he’s getting to the end of the sheet, Steve stops him.

“Ah-ah, leave an inch for overlap,” he says, “and now pick what you want.”

Steve gets smoked salmon and chives, and lays them in a line along the sheet - not right at the top, but like maybe a half inch from the top. Then, once his ingredients are in a nice, straight line, he grabs the icing bag of cream cheese and pipes a stripe along the line of ingredients.

James watches this and then totally goes for the duck, like, come on. He gets it all in a straight line, and then he remembers he’s got hoisin! So he gets some of the spring onion and some of the hoisin and okay, it’s a little bit liquidy-sticky now but who cares.

Rolling, it turns out, is pretty basic. Steve uses the mat to lift the edge of the sheet, to curl the edge over, to make the first…sort of…fold? James isn’t sure what to call it, but then Steve just keeps doing what he’s doing. He pulls the mat, but away from him, so that it rolls the sushi together. James tries this.

James’ sushi is about twice the girth of Steve’s.

“Hey, that’s great!” Steve says, and James gives him another look, but Steve shakes his head.“No, look,” he says and, when James flops the big green slug of his hoisin duck roll onto the bamboo mat, Steve rolls it over and gets some water and runs his finger along the seam of the seaweed. Then he picks the roll up. “It holds together, see? Better than my first attempt, I can tell you.”

James is a little comforted, but also skeptical.

“Right,” he says. “I’m sure.”

Steve puts his hand on his heart.

“I swear on the flag of these United States of-”

James hip-checks him and Steve breaks.

“Seriously, though, kid,” he says. “My first attempt was all bowl-sushi. I didn’t get sticking the overlap down with water, but yours holds, don’t it?”

James tilts his head and looks at it. Yeah, he supposes. It does. But also, more importantly, James could kind of feel that it was loose, as he was rolling it. He needs more pressure, a tighter roll. He thinks he also knows how to get it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m doing tuna next.”

~

Dinner is maki and nigiri, because Steve brought a nigiri mold. And there’s a lot of it. They each made three long rolls, that sliced into eight little maki pieces (James’ maki are a little more raggedy than Steve’s on account of him not managing to clean his knife as thoroughly as he wanted to, but they’re still worth posting on his social media, and sending a picture of to Becca). Steve heats some sake, makes a sauce out of soy sauce, rice vinegar and sugar, and plates up, with a couple bowls on the side for dipping - one of the sauce he made, one of plain soy. Steve has wasabi too but James…No, James skips the wasabi, thanks.

They get settled at the table and Steve says grace, and then picks up his glass of sake. 

_“Kanpai,”_ he says.

 _“Kanpai?”_ James answers, a little nervously, and Steve smiles, touches his glass to James’ and drinks.

_Ohh, cheers!_

Looks like Steve plans to eat his sushi with actual chopsticks.

“They call ‘em _hashi_ in Japan, how ‘bout that?” Steve says, clicking them together a couple of times, grinning as he then grabs one of his little salmon and cream cheese maki. _“Itadakimasu!”_

And he looks so pleased when he puts it in his mouth that James determines to try his best to eat with _hashi_ too.

 _“Itadakimasu,”_ James tries, and Steve beams. 

_“Yoku yatta!”_ he says, with a thumbs-up, and James doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks it probably means ‘good job,’ and he’ll totally take that.

 _“Domo?”_ James tries, and Steve’s eyebrows go up.

“Nice,” he says. “You’re welcome. You know any more?”

 _“Hai,”_ James says.

“Oh?” Steve says. “Do tell.”

James bites his lip to hide his smile.

“No, I mean, I know _hai_ is yes.”

Steve plonks his elbow on the table and covers his eyes with his hand.

“Kid,” he says, and James laughs, until Steve puts his hand down again. “How is it?”

James grins.

“Awesome,” he says, and Steve gets a piece of one of his - which are mackerel, salmon and tuna where James’ are tuna, chicken and duck - dips it in the soy-vinegar sauce (which James totally loves by the way) and holds it out for James to try.

When James goes to take it, Steve turns the chopsticks away just enough to convey, _no_ , before he turns them back again, and James realizes Steve means for him to just eat it right off his chop- off his hashi. He also feels himself blush. Because, on the one hand, this is fish and rice and seaweed, they’re having a meal and Steve wants him to try it. On the other hand, this is something that Steve has made with his very clever hands, is using hashi to hold out to James, and is waiting - watching very intently with eyes gone very dark - for James to use only his mouth to take.

James stands up despite the butterflies in his stomach, leans forward, opens his mouth and Steve hand moves back, just a little. When it happens again as James compensates, he realizes Steve’s doing it on purpose, and finds himself fighting a smile. Steve’s doing the same when he looks. 

This time, Steve holds the hashi and the morsel still, and James, not sure if Steve means it, takes it quickly. He also sucks the end of a the hashi for slightly longer than maybe he needed to.

Steve doesn’t give him a raised eyebrow or a roll of his eyes - actually, Steve is still staring right at James with a small curve to his lips.

“S’good,” James says, quietly because the moment seems to call for it, as he sits back down. “What was it, mackerel?”

“No idea,” Steve says, still staring. 

James looks down as the blush gets worse.

“Right,” he says, clears his throat. “You want to try one of mine?” 

Steve stands up gracefully, and James is kind of stunned all over again for a moment. _Wow_ , he’s big.

And then, _oh right!_

He grabs a piece of whatever - _no idea_ \- and holds it out and then kind of jumps, because Steve is taller than James is and, when he leans across the table, is subsequently much closer to James than James was to him. 

James is kind of mesmerized and forgets to move it as Steve goes to take it, so that he kind of just sits there as Steve takes the food. He moves slowly for a couple seconds, breathes, “ _Itadakimasu,_ ” in this gentle kind of singsong murmur-- 

\--and then grabs the sushi, teeth bared, with a snap, before he sits back down looking smug. 

James is still holding the hashi out.

“Nice,” Steve says. 

Nice? 

James didn’t even remember the sauce. 

~

There isn’t much to do by way of washing up - Steve cleans both their plates, the little bowls (after he literally just drinks what remains of the sauces straight from them), and the various utensils they used but, aside from washing out bowls, their meal was relatively clean.

Things are going well, in fact, and let it never be said that James doesn’t know how to ruin an evening.

It happens by accident, when Steve’s made them both coffee and the evening sun is warm and low. Food is a comfort, Steve’s presence moreso, and they set their cups down to cuddle by the sink, Steve’s huge arms wrapped around James, James’ chin against Steve’s chest so he can look up at Steve and Steve can look down at him.

“Hey,” Steve says.

And James _says_ it, because it’s right there inside of him, the way it’s been right there for weeks now.

“I love you,” James says, and immediately - _immediately_ \- realizes that it was a mistake. There’s no dawning of realization, no careful consideration, he says it and, _as he says it_ , Steve goes _rigid._ “I- I’m sorry,” James says, feels the color drain out of his face, feels his eyes go wide, oh wow, pushes himself out of Steve’s arms and it’s not even a struggle, Steve barely even registers it. “Sorry, Jesus, forget I-”

“James,” Steve says, grabs his wrist, and it’s sudden and loud and James startles because he’s already panicking. 

“Fuck,” James says, and then looks right at Steve, “ _fuck!_ ”

Steve looks like he hasn’t got a clue what to say back. He looks like James has just slapped him and Jesus, of fucking course James would stick his foot in it.

“Christ,” he mutters, shakes his head, closes his eyes when they start to sting.

“James,” Steve says and, this time, he sounds so dejected James doesn’t even want to open his eyes again. “Honey, please-”

“Don’t. _Jesus,_ don’t.”

James pulls his wrist out of Steve’s hand and turns his back. He has no idea what comes next - every movie he’s ever seen, every TV show he’s ever watched, they’ve all painted this like the end. One of them says I love you, the other doesn’t say it back, and that’s it then, isn’t it? That means one of them wants something the other one can’t give. Like if one of them wants children and the other doesn’t, or if one of them proposes and the other says no.

“James, I…” he hears Steve swallow audibly. “Please, kid, I know you don’t wanna hear me talkin’ now but you gotta listen, okay? Please just for a minute and then I can go if want me to go.”

James clenches his jaw, looks up and the ceiling, but he nods. 

This is it, isn’t it? This is the _‘I care about you but I can’t give you what you need’_ speech, the it’s-not-you-it’s-me.

James nods, waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Please, honey,” Steve says. “I understand. I get it. This is big and it feels like everything - it ain’t just ‘cause you’re young, I know that. You ain’t stupid, age ain’t got a damn thing to do with it but me, it’s me, I need more time. I swore I’d never say it if I didn’t mean it for certain and…”

There’s a long silence. Steve sighs, short, frustrated.

“Christ, it’s shitty, I know, I’ve been where you are but it’s- It’s not never going to happen. One day soon it’ll trip right off my tongue but…if I say it now it’s just ‘cause it feels like I ought, and that ain’t no way to do it.”

“You don’t love me,” James says, and he knows it’s petulant, he knows but it doesn’t help.

“James…I love my friends, and you’re sure as hell one of those, ain’t you? It ain’t like I don’t care. It ain’t like I can’t wait to see you, ain’t like I don’t ache to touch you. Ain’t like I don’t dream about you or talk about you or wake up every morning with you in my bed and count my blessings. I just ain’t… _that far_ yet. I- It’s my fault, I know that. It’s hard to say when you-”

“When you don’t mean it,” James says.

“When I’m not ready to mean it,” Steve answers. “I’m almost there, I think about it sometimes. I couldn’t stand to lose you, you’re more’n a friend, way more’n a lover. You’re the most important person in my life right now and all I need is time. I want to say it to you. I want to…James there’s been so much, and I…I know how it is to hear it when it ain’t meant.”

James shakes his head. 

He’s angry. And humiliated. And sad. 

“I want to take it slow with you. I- I understand if that’s not…” James hears Steve swallow hard. “If you…If that’s not…what you want, then I understand. I want to spend more time with you, I want to be here with you. Please, honey-”

“I know,” James says. “I know, I can…God, I can hear you, I know you’re telling the truth. And this isn’t…we’re not over?”

“No, _no_. Not at _all._ I don’t wanna leave you, I just want to spend more time with you,” Steve says. “If you’ll have me.”

“I,” James says, and it’s hard to talk past the lump in his throat, “want to hear it. But I want…” he has to swallow hard again. “I want you to mean it when I do.”

There is a very long silence that follows. James can hear Steve breathing, can hear himself breathing, too.

“Steve,” he says.

“Yeah?” Steve answers, and James wets his lips, shakes his head.

“Could you maybe go for a walk or somethin’? Just for a little bit?” 

All James hears in the next silence is his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“Sure,” Steve says, quiet. “I’ll…I’ll take my phone.”

James hears him moving around, hears the movement of fabric over fabric and metal keys clinking together, hears the minute sounds that make up Steve preparing to let James just take a bit of time by himself. And then he hears Steve walk towards him, feels Steve’s hands grasp his upper arms, feels Steve’s mouth against the side of his skull. 

“I do care about you, James,” he murmurs. 

“Come back in a couple hours,” James says and then, because he can’t help it, he hears the door open and it happens automatically. “I love you.”

Because anything could happen in a couple hours. 

Although he pauses, Steve doesn’t say anything. What could he say?

~

Steve isn't really sure what to do at this point. He knows that he's told the truth, and he knows that it would have been a bad idea to say it back just because James said it. Part of him wants to, but it's not ready to roll off his tongue just yet. He remembers sitting in a cold apartment by himself and wondering if he'd ever hear it directed at him again, wondered if anyone would ever say it and mean it. He remembers saying it himself, the words hollow in his mouth and acid in his throat, twisting his stomach and squeezing his lungs, remembers wishing he could swallow the words back down and have them never said, rather than say them and know they weren't genuine. Lying, Natasha says, has always been a weak point for him. He doesn't doubt that it was easy to see how little he meant it.

It simultaneously the hardest, and the easiest thing, he could ever hope to do. He knows that James has been hiding it for a while. He's heard the accidental slips, he's heard the stunted sentences and awkward reconciliations. He knows, as well, that it's true. James loves him. James already feels that Steve is a part of his life, and is coping remarkably well for that fact.

Steve very much wishes that he didn't feel quite so wound up by everything. His problem is that he's loved three people with such intensity that he would consider them loves of his life. But part of him is still reluctant. Part of him is not quite ready to accept that there is a fourth - let alone a fourth who is so like the first. But he doesn’t _know_. Steve’s lived a life already, even though he’s barely forty, and nobody’s really sure how much life he has left, which is something he tries his utmost not to think about, but he doesn’t _know._ He cares for James, he cares so much for James but it’s…going to take more time.

He doesn't want to lose James. He doesn't want to lose anyone, but he's a man who lives two lives on the best days. He's a Commander first, and a lover second, because that's how it has to be. As much as James has accepted that, Steve knows that there are days on which being an Avenger will come first. 

Steve Rogers has more room in his life for James than James will probably ever need, is more ready to spend he's foreseeable future with James than even _he_ realized to begin with. Commander Rogers lives every mission as though it may be his last, because it might be.

For Commander Rogers, things are different.

~

James sits down on his couch and stares at the wall.

He keeps going over and over it in his head, thinking about the same things time after time. He knows he means what he said. He knows Steve isn't ready to say it. He knows he's irrationally angry about all of it. So what does he do now? Is he just supposed to sit here and wait until he isn't quite so angry? Is he supposed to clean his apartment or bake a cake or something to keep himself occupied and wait until the humiliation of it fades?

Because that's it, isn't it? That's the real rub. It's embarrassing as fuck to be that young, infatuated, puppy-love, sappy-ass fuckup who just couldn't keep his mouth shut. What the hell did he even think he was doing? Steve is a good twenty years older than him and has a day job that could kill him. Steve doesn't need to be worrying about making breakfast for his boy toy and getting tangled up in complicated emotions-

This isn't fair either. James knows it isn't. Steve has already told him that what he said was fine. Steve has already told him that he'll say it back to James someday. If James waits the indefinite amount of time that ‘any day now’ denotes. But here James is, alone in his apartment, face burning from the aftermath of being unable to just keep his stupid mouth closed, wondering why the hell he didn't just keep it to himself.

God, he's so stupid. He's like a teen romance novel, or a badly written TV drama, or a terribly written romcom, and James is the punchline too. He wishes he could take it back, not because he doesn't mean it, but because of the look on Steve's face and the way he made such a good argument. Is it a good argument?

James knows that Steve has been through a lot. Steve has been through more than James can imagine. Maybe it's to do with the fact that Steve has lost so much already - being certain of your feelings isn't good enough if you've already lost everyone who means something to you once. Maybe Steve is frightened of losing James, which is ridiculous, because he's not going to lose James? James doesn't do anything dangerous enough to end up in trouble, and there's no way James is leaving unless Steve forcibly kicks him out. But James has never really said this kind of thing before. James hasn't ever really reached the point where he wanted to. He's said 'I love you' to friends and family, said it in jest to a chef once, but he's never said it with any kind of sincerity to anyone he's been dating. He's been a Summer Fling, he's been a sugar baby, he's been a toy boy, and he's had casual relationships with people the same way he's had not-casual relationships with people. But he's never looked at anybody the way he looks at Steve, never thought to himself what the rest of his life would be like alongside a person the way he has with Steve.

He is absolutely mortified.

He couldn't keep his thoughts to himself, couldn't just let the natural course of things happen. No, he had to say those three words at quite possibly the worst time ever. At least, he reasons, he didn't say it after a fight, or in the middle of sex, or out in public, or in front of his sister, Jesus, but he still said it. It's still way too early to have said it.

James always assumed, when you know, you know. Maybe it's a tougher decision to make for Steve. And that, that makes sense. Steve has to consider more than just his own feelings when it comes to things like this. It's like he said, he's a national icon, he is very much a media interest, and he has to consider James, his career, and everything else that might be affected by their relationship. It's a big responsibility. And Steve has lived and loved a lot more than James has. Lost a lot of it, too.

It doesn't change the fact that James is just humiliated, and disappointed. it's worse, because he wants to tell Steve how he feels, but he doesn't want Steve to know. He wants Steve to hug him and tell him things will be alright, but he's not sure he can look Steve in the eye. He's not sure he's ever been this embarrassed in his _life_ and, rationally, he knows it's not a rejection. It's just that, right now, it feels like one.

He wants to say, 'do you love me?' and have the answer be yes. Steve says that he will love James eventually. That one day he'll be able to say it in return. James...doesn't know how to feel about that.

~

Steve sits with his back against the wall, halfway down the corridor, because where would he go? He doesn't particularly want to leave, but he also doesn't want to be in James' way. He feels terrible. He feels guilty, even though he knows that he's done the right thing. Even though the right thing really blows.

He wants to be able to say it. He wants to be able to answer with it when James says it to him. But he sits in the hallway and tries to say it to himself. Tries to imagine what it would be like to say it to James.

James is twenty-one, with the beginnings of an amazing career, and the rest of his life ahead of him. Today is June twentieth. The first time he saw James, on James’ floor while Tony was fixing his tablet, was nigh on three months ago. They’ve only been spending time together officially termed as ‘dating’ for a little over two months. Steve cares about him, he does. 

He's only been where he is for ten minutes when his phone rings. It says James, and he hesitates about picking up. He's not sure he wants to know whatever decision James has come to, but he also shouldn't balk from this.

He picks up, and doesn't even need to speak, because James speaks first.

 _"Can you come back?"_ he says. _"Please, I…don’t know what to say but I want you here."_

Steve is already on his feet.

***

By the time Steve brings his bike to an idle in the Stark Tower underground parking lot, things are better than they were on Saturday.

There’s been no sex - neither of them really felt like it, not after Saturday evening. But they were alright enough that Steve slept in James’ bed, squished up with him, on Saturday night and Sunday, too. James clung like an octopus, showered by himself, and Steve made him breakfast once he’d got back from church. 

Saturday night was difficult, both of them wanting physical comfort and neither of them sure if they could ask for it, neither of them sure they ought to take it. But they still spent Sunday together, still made meals and James pulled up some stuff on Netflix, and Steve answered a couple of emails. They kissed a little - not as far as making out, but spent time close to each other - and James spent Sunday afternoon cuddled up on the couch with Steve. Once Sunday evening had crawled around, a great deal of the awkwardness had faded, some of the hurt and humiliation had, too.

But James isn’t about to shy away from it.

So when he gets off the back of Steve’s bike and stows the helmet in the locker near Steve’s parking space, he waits until Steve’s taken his helmet off too before he says it again, because it’s true.

“I love you.”

Steve closes one gloved hand around James’ and pulls him close, cranes his neck and kisses James softly, expression serious.

“Have a good day at work,” he says. “If you wanna come down at five, I’ll pick you up.”

James nods. He goes to the elevator and waves before the doors close. He even smiles, actually - hasn’t felt much like smiling this weekend but he’s getting there now. Steve lifts a hand and waves back from the other side of the lot, and the doors close between them so the elevator can take James the rest of the way to work.

He loves Steve. He’s willing to wait. 

And, for the first time all weekend, it feels okay.


	2. Epilogue

“Where the hell are you goin’, Cap?” Fury says, and Steve doesn’t even break stride.

Four hours. _Four hours_ in a warzone to shore up that fucking building and he still only got the mother out. 

Mother _to be_ , Christ Jesus and all the saints, that’s how it works, he knows that. But he also knows exactly what it’s like to be one half of a whole, to be one of two and then just one, and he knew - he knows the husband knew. 

_“Take her first, get me out next. I love you, sweetheart.”_

They _all_ knew, except her.

No, there’s only one place he’s going and it isn’t to debrief, not after he’s just had another crock of shit from SHIELD.

“Home,” he says, and if his apartment in the tower weren’t on his way down from medical, he’d’ve driven home in the goddamn hospital pajamas.

~

So it’s less than a month after Steve’s birthday that James comes awake in Steve’s bed, in the warehouse conversion in Brooklyn, because Steve has walked past instead of getting in. It is seven minutes past two in the morning, and he’s not back out by two thirty-three. James has only been dating him a few months, but he’s never seen Steve take a shower by himself that lasted longer than fifteen minutes. 

James sits up, turns on the bedside lamp, and sees blood on the low balcony wall. He’s not frightened - it doesn’t looks fresh, it’s transfer. Steve isn’t stupid enough to ignore a wound bad enough to do real damage anyway. Instead Steve must be, as always, healing slowly, painfully. James goes into the bathroom.

At the other end of the bathroom, the shower is running. Steve’s shower is perpendicular to the rest of the room, set along the short wall at the back. There are lights inside the walk-in stall, and the bathroom isn’t overly warm, so James can make out Steve’s figure through the foggy, droplet-speckled glass. 

Steve stands facing the spray, head down so that it beats against the back of his skull, hands pressed to the wall either side of his head. James can hear him breathing - it isn’t pained. It’s not labored - it’s more like…It’s more like the wind-down after a nightmare, more like Steve is slowly regaining control of himself. Steve doesn’t move so James watches him, watches him standing still under the shower spray, supporting himself against the wall.

And then, quite suddenly, Steve moves.

He twists, his head comes around, and he seems to sag a little once the blur of his face is visible. James must have startled him. He only remembers managing that once before, after China, in the middle of the night when they’d swum in the pool, and Steve had wandered to the kitchen instead of going to bed. 

Steve uses one hand to swipe across the glass once, enough to clear it so he can see that it’s definitely James.

“Go back to bed, honey,” he says, his voice hollow as it comes back off the tiles. “I won’t be long.”

James waits a few more moments, trying to decide on his next move. Then he pulls his pajama shirt over his head, pushes the waistband of the pants down until they fall. When he starts to walk towards the shower, Steve doesn’t look as pleased about it as James might have hoped, but he still just stands there, just watches. James rounds the corner of the glass partition and Steve shifts himself bodily to lean back against the tiles, arms falling to his sides, back pressed flat against the wall, head tilted back as he watches James, so that the shower spray hits him in the chest from over his head.

His mouth is a thin, white line, and he raises his eyebrows, eyes narrowed. He’s been shot - his flank, close to the edge of his body - but it’s healing. Hasn’t hit anything vital.

“Now what?” he says. 

James hears the tone and understands the meaning - _you didn’t do what I asked you and I am not impressed_ \- but James isn’t a child and Steve isn’t his boss.

So he walks up to Steve and holds out his arms when he gets close enough, and doesn’t give Steve time to object before he hugs him. It’s alright anyway - just as James gets close enough, Steve leans forward himself anyway, turns his head to rest his cheek against James’ shoulder. The water beats down against the nape of his neck, over James’ hands where they’re pressed to Steve back, and all James does is just not let go.

For a long few moments, they just stand there.

And then Steve shakes his head a little, James feels it, Steve turns his head the other way and presses his nose to James’ throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, I love you,” and James doesn’t let go. “I love you,” Steve says again. 

James doesn’t know what’s set this off. Doesn’t really care. He moves his head enough that Steve lifts his head off James’ shoulder, too, so that Steve looks down at him, face to face. They don’t pull apart, but Steve lifts one hand and brushes the backs of his fingers against James’ cheek. His expression is pained, serious, as he settles his palm on the back of James’ skull, and he shakes his head.

“You already know I love you too,” James tells him, and Steve nods minutely, drops eye contact.

So James kisses him - telegraphs clearly and moves at a reasonable pace, stands on his toes and turns his head and brushes Steve’s nose with his, brushes his lips over Steve’s before he opens his mouth. Steve kisses back like he’s worried he’ll break James, and like he’s worried he might never kiss James again - the same sort of desperate longing and terrified carefulness that James has started to become familiar with. It means something happened on-mission. Whatever it is, James can be here while he looks for the strength to accept it, and hold Steve in return when Steve’s arms come up around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, you've reached the end of the _first_ planned story arc. The getting-together chapters are done, the meeting-the-social-circle chapters are (hopefully) next, and I'm hoping I did okay at conveying a bit of the difference between them. Those three words aren't always easy to say, and Steve's entitled to take his time. Still though, it was always going to happen :)
> 
> Thank you to everybody who came and wished me well - my arms are improving every day, and I hope to be back to typing properly soon.
> 
>  **Spoiler alert:** If you'd like to know the dates in this series, here's [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) of the first ten parts, with a short summary of each part. **Spoilers for parts 1-10, though.**
> 
>  
> 
> **If you've decided a good thing to do would be to read this start to finish, or on a long journey, thank you! That's really great of you :D With any luck, there'll be more to this soon, so please take a minute to grab yourself a drink, take a bathroom break, and stretch your legs if you can :)**

**Author's Note:**

> Amy says “Mom, Dad, would you like bacon pancakes for breakfast? Uh..brunch?”
> 
> Steve says first, “Kanpai,” meaning ‘dry cup,’ which is the Japanese version of ‘cheers,’ and then “Itadakimasu!” meaning ‘I humbly receive,’ which is the Japanese version of ‘let’s eat’. James says “Domo,” or ‘thank you,’ and he is also mostly correct in his assumption of the meaning of “Yoku yatta” - in fact, it means well done.


End file.
